


Rich Boy

by Avengerz



Series: Snippets [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Punk, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Vague Time Period
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5694295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avengerz/pseuds/Avengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A punk!Steve AU I never finished</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Wherein Steve is a very cool, tough punk who most certainly doesn't pine after arrogant rich boys.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by some other authors who have done the same, I'm posting some of my uncompleted works. If there's enough interest or I get struck by inspiration, I may continue them. That being said, you can still read and enjoy them just fine, they just don't have a true conclusion.
> 
> Originally Written: August 8, 2015  
> Un-beta'd

Steve Rogers doesn’t smoke. That surprises most people, as it kind of detracts from his bad boy aura, but most people don’t know that his mother was a nurse and Steve can vividly imagine her glare anytime he even looks at a cigarette. So no, Steve Rogers doesn’t smoke.

So when some slicked-back rich boy strolls up to him while he’s loitering around the docks waiting for Bucky to get off work, and asks him for a light, Steve can only shake his head. “I don’t smoke.”

“Damn,” Rich Boy says on a sigh, and leans back against the wall next to Steve (apparently unconcerned with the dirt he's surely getting all over his very expensive-looking suit jacket). “Guess I’ve run out of excuses to talk to you, then.” The unlit cig in his mouth wobbles precariously with each syllable and Steve’s so busy watching it (and the lips wrapped around it) that it takes him a second to register what Rich Boy said.

“What?”

Rich boy smirks. “What, that take you by surprise, Sex Pistols? Surely I’m not the first guy to try to chat you up.” He’s slick, confident, but Steve sees something in his eyes that looks as if he’s half expecting to get punched. So even though this is, in fact, the first time a guy has tried to chat him up, Steve rolls with it.

“If this is your attempt to chat me up,” he drawls, “I’ve gotta say I’m unimpressed. Asking for a light? Really?”

Rich Boy beams, clearly delighted at Steve’s decision not to punch him. “You’re right, that was pretty weak. In my defense, I really did come over here to find a lighter, but I got distracted by your pretty face.”

Steve has to suppress a blush. He’s never been called pretty before, that’s for sure. Skinny punk, definitely. Cute, once or twice (to his mortification). But this was a first. “Careful, rich boy,” he grins. “Don’t push your luck.”

“So I guess I shouldn’t ask you to come back to my place, huh?” Rich Boy waggles his eyebrows.

Steve rolls his eyes, then takes a more critical look at the other boy. He can’t be much older than fifteen, and though Steve himself is barely seventeen, a frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “D’you even have your own place?” Not that he would go with rich boy back there!

Rich Boy scoffs. “I’m going to MIT in the fall, man. I’ve got an apartment.”

“Then what are you doing in New York?”

Rich Boy looks away, the first sign of discomfort crossing his face. “My dad wants me to stay in the family home for the summer.” Steve frowns, tries to think of something to say to combat the strange sorrow lurking in Rich Boy’s eyes, but then he’s speaking again, a (forced?) smile determinedly back in place. “But hey, at least I got to meet you, right?”

Before Steve can reply, Rich Boy’s gaze switches to something over Steve’s shoulder, and his smile disappears. “I’ve got to go. See you around, Billy Idol.” Then he’s fast-walking, almost jogging, away so that by the time Steve turns around, all he sees is Rich Boy’s distant profile next to a taller man. They look similar (Rich Boy’s father?) and seem to be arguing, but before Steve can investigate further, a heavy arm is slinging around his shoulders.

“Hey, Stevie. You ready to go?”

Steve blinks once, twice, and tears his gaze away from Rich Boy. “Uh, yeah, sure. My bike’s over there.”

Bucky notices his distraction (of course) and unsuccessfully tries to follow Steve’s gaze. “Watcha lookin’ at?”

“Nothin’.” Steve shakes his head and runs a hand through the stripe of hair that remains on the top of his head. “Let’s go.”


	2. Chapter 2

The second time Steve met Rich Boy, he was idling in the middle of the road, his bike purring beneath him as he waited for the light to change. The streets were surprisingly clear, though that probably had something to do with the fancy state of the neighborhood he was currently taking a shortcut through. It was late, and quiet, so the sound of expensive Italian leather loafers pounding against cement echoed loudly among the giant, luxurious homes. He turned, intrigued, only to be confronted with a blur of Armani and messy brown hair before his bike rocks with the impact of another person jumping on.

“Ride,” a hoarse, familiar voice demands, and maybe it’s shock or maybe it’s something else, but Steve does. They’re a mile down the street before Steve shakes off his befuddlement enough to speak. 

“Um. What are you doing?” Is he being carjacked? Or… motorcyclejacked?

His voice is distorted by the face mask of his helmet, and the rush of the wind, but the man behind him must recognize it because he feels the jolt of the body behind him that accompanies a burst of surprised laughter. “Well, if it isn’t The Clash! What brings you to this side of Manhattan? You struck me as more of a Brooklyn boy.“ 

"I-I am,” Steve stammers, confused. This is ridiculous. Steve’s a protest-chanting, sign-waving, tattoo-sporting, social justice warrior punk. Yet here is, tongue tied by a smooth talking whiz kid. (Because yeah, he recognizes Rich Boy’s voice.)

And it’s then that he abruptly realizes the insanity of just driving off with some kid he barely knows just because he jumped on and demanded it. Steve scoffs and pulls into the parking lot of an abandoned gas station. “Alright, fella,” he demands as he switches the engine off. “Get off.”

Rich Boy, like the stubborn asshole Steve is quickly realizing he is, doesn’t. “Why?” he whines petulantly. “I was enjoying our little ride.” Steve doesn’t respond out loud, but he swings himself off the bike, forcing Rich Boy to yelp and jump off to avoid Steve’s leg. “Rude.”

Steve sighs and pulls off his helmet, runs a hand through his hair in a (probably useless) attempt to make it look like anything else than a blue rodent that crawled onto his head and died.

“Oh, hey, it’s blue now!” Rich Boy exclaims, delightedly. “It was red last time. Going for white next, get the full American set?”

Steve sighs again (he does that a lot around this kid) and turns to face Rich Boy. And starts in surprise. “What happened?”

Rich Boy flinches and looks away, but it’s not enough to hide the dark purpling around one eye. “Uh, nothing, I just, uh, ran into the door.” It’s such an atrociously bad lie that Steve can only stare at him. Rich Boy actually blushes. “Okay, yeah, that was pretty bad. Um.”

“You, uh, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want me to,” Steve offers. Rich Boy looks relieved. “But can you at least tell me why you jumped on to my bike?”

Rich Boy shifts, once again looking uncomfortable, and doesn’t reply. Steve watches him expectantly for a moment longer, but there’s still nothing. “Well, I’ll take that as a no, then. How about where you wanna go?”

Rich Boy looks up at that, grins. “Wherever you’re going, big guy.” Steve might have gotten annoyed at the dig about his height, but something about the way Rich Boy says it, something about his grin, dispels Steve’s annoyance. Instead, he feels a weird thrill, a rush of something exciting and dangerous.

“Alright, then,” Steve says, grinning in return and he pulls an extra helmet from the rear compartment. “Let’s ride.”

It’s crazy, even by Steve’s (admittedly low) standards. He doesn’t even know Rich Boy’s name! But something about those mischievous brown eyes and wide smirk makes Steve want to do crazy things.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts? Would anyone like to read more?
> 
> Also, you can find me on tumblr at [anthonyfuckingstark](http://anthonyfuckingstark.tumblr.com) if you want!


End file.
